


It's Not About the Crown

by JumanjiiCostco



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: grieving yasha, guys this was so hard to write, really really sad yasha, wow i made myself sad again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 07:29:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JumanjiiCostco/pseuds/JumanjiiCostco
Summary: It happened again. Mollymauk is gone--really, really gone--and that's a lot to process.





	It's Not About the Crown

There’s ice and whipping cold, the world a sea of white death, of loss and emptiness. And Yasha is a blight on it all, towering–just this once, she really feels tall–in the face of this storm, wings out, eyes black, heart broken and tears long-since frozen to her cheeks. She wants to scream, but the noises heaving themselves from her chest are fragile and small and hidden and she can’t let them out. Not yet.

Not until it’s over, until she can face something–anything–with her sword in hand. Not until she can face it like he would. Not for the first time, she curses everything and everyone that kept them from coming back. All the gods, all the patrons, all the puny people who got in their way, who participated, who kept her from being there when–

~~Molly. Sweet, sweet Molly.~~

In a few hours, when she’s calmed down, she’ll pray for him. Maybe to the Stormlord, maybe to the Raven Queen, maybe to someone else entirely–the whole universe, the Moonweaver, who knows? In a few hours, when the blood isn’t hot in her veins, scorching its way out and burning her wings black, she’ll cry. Curl up in the fetal position and let sorrow wash over her like an ocean. But for now, the swirling clouds in the sky are a siren call and her sorrow is too close and too distant all at once to let it out.

He’s using it–she knows he is–the Stormlord, I mean. Drawing her in through her need for retaliation, for healing. He’s taking what she’s feeling and amplifying it, pulling at her obedience and making that her lesser reason for fighting. Justified revenge taking precedence.

In a few hours, or a few days–weeks, months, or years–when she’s healed inside and out, she’ll come back to this place. She’ll pick the most beautiful flowers she can find along the way and leave them at his feet. (He’d like that. The gesture.) When she’s healed, she’ll bring him a book and read by his grave marker. Slowly, out loud, and remembering how vibrant and alive he was. He would have been so much brighter than the sunlight on the snow.

The storm clouds ahead darken with her mood. Yasha tilts back her head and lets out one more brief, choked sob, before she takes to the skies.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Walk the Moon's "Kamikaze."


End file.
